


The Effect of LJ

by badboy_fangirl



Series: The Effects Series [2]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 07:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10552628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badboy_fangirl/pseuds/badboy_fangirl
Summary: LJ is with Jane, safe in Washington. And then he is not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first portion is post episode for 2x17 Bad Blood; the second portion is post episode for 2x10 Rendezvous; the rest of it post episode for the 3x08 Bang and Burn, becoming AU almost immediately. :-)

“It’s Dad,” LJ says, thrusting the phone at me.  
  
Looking up from my laptop, I can see by the young man’s expression the conversation hasn’t gone well, so I mentally brace myself. “Hello, Lincoln,” I say into the phone as LJ retreats back to his bedroom.  
  
We’ve been living together for all of a week, but I know LJ well enough to know after this phone call, he’s going to need a pep talk.  
  
“Jane,” Lincoln’s voice rumbles through the phone, warming my blood and chilling my skin. There’s an infinite sadness within the sound of my name, and I suddenly just know. He has to tell me, but I know anyway.  
  
“Aldo?”  
  
“Gone.”  
  
He doesn’t elaborate, and though at some point I will need details, I know there’s no reason to make him relive it right now. “Are you all right?” I ask.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, me and Mike, we’re okay. I mean…” he breaks off, and I imagine him sitting down defeatedly.  
  
“You’re alive, and that’s what matters right now,” I say, finishing his thought, though maybe that’s not what he was going to say at all.  
  
“Right,” he utters shortly, but his resigned tone hints that maybe that’s not enough.  
  
“What can I do?” I ask. “We’re two days from Colorado, if you need to come to a safe place.”  
  
“No,” he says quickly. “We have some information—the information my dad wanted us to find. I need to know who to give that information to. Someone reliable.”  
  
“Cooper Green.” I know exactly who Aldo would have contacted if he were still alive, and after I give his number to Lincoln, I explain why. “He’s the former Deputy Attorney General. He was one of the first contacts your father ever had outside The Company who was trying to bring them down from the outside while others, like your father, worked on the inside. When your father went rogue five years ago, Cooper was the one who insured his safe retrieval from behind enemy lines. If you give him this information, he’ll run with it if he can. He’s been waiting for this phone call.”   
  
A heavy sigh filters through the phone. “God, I hope so,” Lincoln breathes.  
  
“Anything else I can do?” I ask.  
  
“Just take care of my son,” he responds, his voice soft, a slightly choked rasp coating that last word.  
  
“He’s doing well,” I say, trying to offer some reassurance.  
  
“That’s what it sounds like. I’m…” he pauses, clearing his throat briefly. “I’m glad.”  
  
He’s lying, but what else can he say? “When this is over, we’ll be on the first plane to wherever you are,” I promise.  
  
Another pause greets this statement. “No,” he says gruffly. “You do what’s best for LJ. If he wants to stay with you there, then that’s what’s best for him.”  
  
“When this is over, Lincoln, what’s best for him is to be with his father.”  
  
When he makes no response, I find myself clutching the phone tighter to my ear. I’ve shared some odd things with this man—a father who didn’t father him but played surrogate to me; a heated kiss in the middle of a kitchen after he bloodied my lip; a shared kill—something only a soldier knows binds you to your comrades; and now his son. We are sharing things that keep people together for a long time, and I know so little about him, but I know the thing that matters the most to him is LJ. I fill the silence. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”  
  
Another long pause greets my offer, but then he clears his throat and says, “You take care.”  
  
“I will. Not one hair on his head will be harmed. I swear to you.”  
  
A soft, mostly mirthless chuckle hits my ear, and I find myself wishing that this phone call could be the one where he says it’s all over. I wish I could know that at some point Lincoln Burrows will call me and tell me to come to wherever he is, not just to return his son safely to his arms. “Be careful,” I say, because I’m no one’s mother, but it’s the universal way of expressing concern anyway.  
  
“See ya, Jane.” I don’t hang up the phone until the dial tone burrs in my ear. Tears for Aldo will come later.  
  
Slowly getting to my feet, I make my way to LJ’s bedroom. The door is ajar and he’s sitting at his desk staring out the window instead of working on his homework. I tap on the door lightly with my knuckles, causing him to turn towards me. “He sounded sad,” LJ says without preamble.  
  
“Your grandfather was killed,” I respond, walking into the room and placing the phone back on LJ’s desk. Lincoln’s only called us once this entire time, but LJ feels better when he has the phone near him.  
  
“Aw, shit,” LJ mutters, dropping his head into one of his hands. Sitting slumped at his desk, he looks so much younger than his 16 years, but the words that come out of his mouth are so much older. “I should have told him I’d come be with him as soon as he wants. I should have told him the truth.”  
  
Putting my hand on his shoulder, I squeeze him gently as I perch on the corner of his bed. “You did the right thing, LJ. Your grandfather knew exactly how your dad would feel about being separated from you, and that in his effort to get you back with him, his judgment would be clouded. We’ve talked about this so much; you know it was the right thing. You agreed with me, that this is the right thing.”  
  
He nods, but then I hear his ragged, tear-filled voice say, “But it was a lie. I don’t want to be away from him. I don’t care about school. I only want to be with my dad and Uncle Mike.”  
  
“Let them finish what your grandfather started. As soon as it’s over—“  _please, God, let it be over soon_  “—I’ll take you to him. I promise you. I just promised him that, too.” Sliding my hand up the back of his neck, I turn his unresisting head toward me so our eyes meet. “I swear to you, LJ, I will take you to him the second it’s safe to do so. Then you can tell him the truth: that we only stayed away so he could finish the job. Okay?”  
  
Sniffing, he wipes his wrist under his nose. “Okay, Jane.”  
  


*

  
  
Less than two weeks later, I arrive home from the grocery store to a completely silent house. As soon as I go inside, I pull my gun from the holster and check every room carefully. LJ is nowhere to be found, and I can hear Aldo’s voice in my head,  _Protocol, protocol, protocol!_  Maybe in some remote place in my brain I wanted this to be a non-job, and in the process I’ve compromised LJ. Panic streaks through me when I consider a possible future moment when Lincoln calls and wants to talk to his son.  
  
As I pull my cell phone from my belt loop to put in a few calls to those who remain from Aldo’s inner circle for back up, I notice a note tacked on the refrigerator.  
  
In shaky handwriting it reads,  _Dear Jane, I had to go find my dad. I know we agreed I’d stay here, but this is what I have to do. Don’t try to find us; you don’t want to end up like the rest of us. Thank you for everything. I love you. LJ._  
  
LJ’s a hothead, there’s no doubt about that, and considering what little I’ve seen of Lincoln personally and stories his son has shared with me over the last few days, it’s not hard to see where he got his act now, think later trigger from. All the same, I am certain that the longer we discussed both his safety and his family’s safety he had truly come to believe the best thing to do was stay here with me.  
  
Now that he’s gone, something just niggles at me that it isn’t right. Would LJ do this? Yes, my mind answers. He told me about finding Paul Kellerman’s home and lying in wait for him. I’ve never met Kellerman, but I’ve heard plenty about him, especially since his testimony is what has exonerated Lincoln, and his subsequent martyrdom cemented that everything he’d said was true. Knowing once upon a time, LJ almost got the upper hand with the guy boggles my mind. But the fact that he’s also indicated that things can only end badly seems like a clue. The idea that someone came and took him seems more likely than that I totally misread his body language, the tone of his voice, or the look of trust in his eyes as we became closer during our time together. He needs a mother-figure, and truth be told, I need someone to need me; me, Jane Phillips, not me, Company Woman, Shadowy Figure Who Disappears as Soon as the Job is Finished.   
  
Of course, the moment this became more than a job is the minute I should have turned LJ over to someone else who could better serve him. But that moment had happened against a counter in a kitchen in Colorado with his father; LJ hadn’t even been a factor in it, other than that he’d interrupted it. And then on the long drive to Washington, he’d asked, “So, you like my dad?”  
  
I had been lost in thought about the man in question, reliving his passionate kisses and the feel of him pressed against me, and I wondered if LJ had some psychic ability. “Sure,” I answered in what I hoped was a casual voice.  
  
“No, I mean: you  _like_  my dad?” he asked, wanting clarification.  
  
Keeping my eyes on the highway, I sped up and passed a car that I’d been trailing for a mile or so. “I hardly know him, LJ.” That was God’s honest truth, though I’d somehow become quite intimate with his tongue and his ass in Colorado.  
  
“But you made out with him,” he stated, as though that proved anything.  
  
“Um, hardly. He kissed me…and I…I didn’t object.”  
  
“You both had your hands all over each other. I could tell you weren’t objecting,” he snorted then, and I couldn’t help but toss a quick glance at his face. He grinned when our eyes met.  
  
“He kissed me,” I said again, looking back at the road.  
  
“And you liked it,” he ribbed, his tone reminiscent of a boy teasing a good friend.  
  
“He’s a good kisser,” I conceded, which happened to be a massive understatement.  
  
Then he cackled, his laugh clear and free and he slapped his hand on the seat between us. “You like my dad,” he said in a sing-song voice. “You like my dad.”  
  
“Shut up,” I ordered, and he quickly did so. I thought the subject was closed until a few minutes later when he said, “My dad’s a good guy. Really. You  _should_  like him.”  
  
I could feel myself tensing in self-defense. “I hardly know him, LJ. What happened—what you saw—that was just a moment. Sometimes intense things happen, and emotions come up and—“  
  
“Whatever,” he interrupted rudely. “I’m just saying. My dad: He’s great. That’s all. Okay?”  
  
If we hadn’t been on the freeway, and if I had known him better at the time, I’d’ve reached over right then and popped him in the mouth with my fist. As it was, I just tightened my grip on the steering wheel and let silence overtake the cab of the SUV.  
  
Now, as I study his handwriting, and think about those moments I spent with him, I can’t help but wonder how anyone could blame me for him leaving—short of me tying him up—or how anyone would expect him to do anything except try to find his family.  
  
When the news had broken nationwide the day after Lincoln’s phone call to us, we saw numerous stories about the President’s sudden illness and her stepping down as well as the fact that the “notorious Michael Scofield” had been seen in Chicago the same day. There was a leak from some White House staffer that the President had in fact met with Michael, but no one could prove it or would validate the leak. But Michael and Lincoln had not been apprehended, which meant they had gotten away again, even though, for whatever reason they had not been able bust open the conspiracy. That came several days later when Paul Kellerman took the stand at Sara Tancredi’s trial.  
  
I dial an old associate’s number. Within a few minutes, he agrees to fly to Washington to examine the small bit of evidence I’ve got. Then I check my cell phone for the number Lincoln called from almost two weeks earlier. After I dial it, I’m not surprised to hear that the number is no longer in service. Snapping the phone shut, I pivot on my heel and march back to LJ’s room to comb every inch of it for the slightest clue as to whether he willingly left this place or not.  
  


*

  
  
I’m just leaving the terminal of the airport in Panama City when my phone starts vibrating. I pull it out, examining the number carefully. I don’t know it, but it’s an international number, I’m hoping from someone here in Panama. I’ve tried to make a few contacts over the last week and a half, because even though I know this is where I need to go, now that I’m here it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Hello?” I ask as I’m jostled by some guy who must think I’m not moving fast enough.  
  
“Jane?”   
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Jane Phillips?”  
  
“Yes. Who’re you?”   
  
“This is Lincoln.”  
  
My knees actually buckle, but by then I’m near the front counter of the car rental agency and I put my hand out to steady myself. “Lincoln,” I breathe so softly, it’s entirely possible he doesn’t even hear me respond. He’s alive. He’s alive, and now I have to tell him that I haven’t been able to find LJ, but that I think he might be somewhere in this Latin American country I’ve just arrived in.  
  
“Jane? You there?” he asks. It suddenly registers that his voice is ragged, and he sounds much worse than when I talked to him almost a month ago.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m just so surprised—and relieved—to hear from you. You’ve been exonerated,” I blurt out.  
  
“Yeah, I know. Are you all right?” he asks. “You’re safe?”  
  
Puzzled by the question, I answer immediately. “I’m fine. I’m just fine. What about you? Are you and Michael—“  
  
“We’re all right,” he interrupts. “Look—I’m in Panama right now, and LJ…LJ’s…” My heart shudders in my chest. How will I explain this to him? He already sounds bad off, that’s all he needs is me saying  _I lost your boy_. “LJ’s hurt,” he continues. “He’s in the hospital, and he wanted me to call yo—“  
  
“Wait a minute,” I say, interrupting him this time. Pressing the phone tighter to my right ear and the thumb of my free hand into my left ear canal to cancel out the airport noise behind me, I demand harshly, “LJ’s with you?”  
  
“Yes,” he says emphatically. “He’s here, and he wanted me to call you—to tell you he’s sorry he lied to you.”  
  
Tears start to trickle unwarranted down my face—emotion I hope I would not allow myself if I were actually in Lincoln’s presence. “Lincoln, I’m in Panama, too. I just got here, actually. I was coming to find you because LJ didn’t leave a trail but you and your brother did.” I was just grasping at straws, hoping and praying LJ had somehow found his way here to his father and his uncle, and he did. How in the world he got here is not important right now.  
  
“Yeah, well,” he says, his voice tinged with something I can’t identify: hurt, regret, despair.  
  
Then it registers that he said LJ’s in the hospital and I talk over whatever he intends to say next. “LJ’s hurt? How bad?”  
  
There’s a deep sigh and then just one pitiful word. “Bad.”  
  


*

  
  
The whole way to the hospital, which takes a total of 43 minutes, I’m reliving that one word. Lincoln’s voice saying ‘bad’ reverberates throughout the chambers of my heart until my chest hurts terribly. How can I care this much, this deeply about a kid I spent less that three weeks with? How can I care about his father so much when I only spent an afternoon with him? Granted it was one of the more titillating afternoons of my life, but still. It’s ridiculous. It’s totally ridiculous.  
  
I hand the cabbie some money and ask him to take my luggage on to the hotel, which happens to be near the hospital. I flash my shoulder holster subtly and say, “If my stuff doesn’t arrive at the hotel, I’ll remember your license number, Jorge,” which proves I took the time to learn his name, and memorize his license number.  
  
He nods, winking a large, flirtatious brown eye at me. “No worries,  _Chiquita_. I’m honest. The Hotel Flamingo? It’s just a few blocks from here. Don’t worry, I take care of everything.”  
  
I shake his hand in agreement, grateful his English is so good, because I know my Spanish is rusty at best. He drives away and leaves me staring at the big white building that is Panama City’s largest hospital.  
  
I walk inside and ask the receptionist if she speaks English. After she affirms that she does, I ask for LJ’s room number and then make my way up to the second floor. There’s a small waiting area, with six chairs and a table covered in old newspapers that I start to pass by, although there are a few people gathered there. I’m heading straight for where I believe LJ’s room is when I hear, “Jane? Excuse me, are you Jane Phillips?”  
  
Stopping my progression, I look back, and a man I’ve seen in various mug shots on my television steps forward. Michael Scofield stretches a hand out towards me, but his uncertainty is obvious. Standing with him are two people, a man and woman, both of Latino heritage. They look even more uncertain than Michael does. The man is familiar in the face, and I realize he must be one of the guys who broke out with Lincoln and Michael. “Michael?” I ask in return, and he nods. I step toward him and hold out my hand as well, and he wraps his fingers around mine, shaking my hand firmly. “I’m Jane. I worked with your father.”  
  
“It’s good to meet you,” he says softly. He looks terrible, as though he hasn’t showered in days, and his clothes are stained with a myriad of things, one of which looks like blood, but his eyes are full of sadness and warmth.  
  
“Where’s Lincoln?” I ask.  
  
“He’s with LJ. We can only see him one at a time, so Linc’s in there with him right now. The doctor wants us to keep the visits short so LJ can get plenty of rest.” Michael’s hand stays around mine long enough to pull me closer to the other people he’s obviously with. Both the man and the woman watch me with wary eyes, but their concern is for the tired man before me and I can see that instantly.  
  
“LJ’s conscious?” I ask.  
  
Michael nods. “In and out. He’s very weak.”  
  
“What happened?” I ask.  
  
“He took a bullet…for his dad. Jumped right in front of Linc. I think when LJ’s better, Linc may skin him alive for it.” A slight smile cracks Lincoln’s brother’s face, and I’m suddenly aching to see him. I need to see that Lincoln is all right, even if LJ may not make it.  
  
“Will he get better?” I ask gently.  
  
Michael nods vigorously. “Of course he will.” I glance over at his companions, who exchange dubious glances, and my need to see Lincoln increases tenfold.  
  
I feel him before I see him, and I’m sure some scientist somewhere could chalk that up to pheromones, but all I know is every cell of my body becomes aware of him before I hear his voice. “Jane?”  
  
I turn around to see him coming up the hall. He looks about as bad as Michael, dirty, sweaty, et al, but as he draws nearer, I can see much larger patches of dried blood on his blue t-shirt. I know it’s LJ’s blood as surely as I know I want this man. It’s instinctual, unavoidable, just like allowing him to kiss me in the kitchen at the safe house had been. He’d thought it was his idea, but I’d pretty much been wanting it as soon as I recovered from the head butt. I can’t seem to move closer to him now, though I’d love to reach my arms out, not in a handshake like I did to Michael, but in a gesture of comfort, because I can see that he needs it. He looks worn, and years older than he did when I met him, with new lines of worry on his face. But he’s still vitally alive, and the sight of him, the feel of him, only a few feet from me, sends my pulse skyrocketing. Memories of being much closer to him crowd into my head, and the promises that I made to him that I failed to keep hang between us.  
  
He reaches out when I stay unmoving, his hand wrapping around my elbow. He doesn’t pull me closer, and he doesn’t seem to expect me to do anything, but his eyes cut to Michael and he asks, “Can I take her in there? LJ’s awake right now, and he’d want to see her.”  
  
I glance back at Michael, and he nods graciously. I shake my head negatively. “No, you should go—he’s your nephew.”  
  
Michael’s eyes manage to smile, though his lips don’t move at all, but he just shakes his head in correlation with mine. “I’ve already seen him once. We’ve been here for hours. They just finally let us go back in. You go. Linc’s right, he’d want to see you.”  
  
Lincoln tugs me firmly away from Michael, hardly giving me time to thank him for his generosity. We walk quickly down the hall and I turn my head to look at his filthy clothes again. “They let you in his room looking like this?” All I can imagine is the grime and dirt somehow infecting LJ and any of the other sick people already housed here.  
  
“They make you put on scrubs and wear little plastic gloves. We’ve been here since last night, no time to change,” he explains, the fatigue in his voice suddenly heavy in the air. “You go in and sit with him for a bit, I’m going to make sure Sucre and Sofia take Michael back to the hotel to sleep.”   
  
As we get to the entryway of what must the Panamanian equivalent of ICU, I put my hand on Lincoln’s chest. “You need to rest too,” I say. “I’ll stay here with him if you want me to.”  
  
Lincoln shakes his head. “They won’t let you stay with him. You have five minutes now. After you’ve seen him, we’ll talk.” Jerking his chin back up the hall to where his brother and friends wait, he says, “I’ll wait for you out there, okay?”  
  
His eyes are fierce, intense, but there also seems to be a clinging quality to them, as though he needs  _me_ , and wants _me_ , and all I can think is if I can offer anything to help any of them, but especially him, I’m willing to do it. I touch his cheek softly with my hand; it’s the least I want to do, but I’m still grateful that he allows even this. “All right,” I agree quietly. “Thank you, for letting me see him.”  
  
A small smile touches his mouth. “When I told him you were on your way, he said he wouldn’t sleep until he saw you. So get in there, see him and tell him to rest. He needs it bad.” His hand drops from my elbow and he turns to head back down the hall.  
  
“Lincoln?” My uncertainty covers so many emotions, but all I can really address here in this place as a nurse walks forward and hands me scrubs to put over my clothes is this: “I’m sorry. Sorry that I didn’t watch over LJ better. That I didn’t keep him safe.”  
  
He stopped walking when I said his name, but as his eyes focus on mine while I apologize, I feel his anguish plainly before he responds with, “You’d be dead too, Jane. LJ did the right thing; he lied to get himself out of danger by staying with you, then he lied to keep you safe from the bitch that brought him down here. He told me he couldn’t live knowing he’d gotten you killed, so he protected you. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”  
  
Tears sting my eyes for the second time in less than an hour, and I blink to clear them away. Lincoln watches me steadily, and I know he’s thinking of everyone that hadn’t been protected, that couldn’t have been saved. Too many people to appropriately count, but one of them was LJ’s mother, and I feel a sudden overwhelming flood of gratitude that my life has led me here, to this family, to these men. Finally I just nod, because my throat feels too clogged to speak. Lincoln’s jaw tightens and his hand reaches up, his fingers curling around my shoulder comfortingly. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he says softly.  
  
I watch him walk away as I don the scrubs that the nurse handed me, smiling my thanks to her before she leads me into LJ’s room. There are various machines beeping around him, but he’s breathing on his own, and he’s awake, which seems like a good sign. “Hey, LJ,” I say, my voice not much above a whisper.  
  
His head turns toward me and though he’s pale, his eyes are aware. His hand reaches for mine, squeezing weakly. “Jane,” he says, his voice raspy, and I know not long ago he had a tube down his throat to help him breathe. “Hi.”  
  
“Hi. I hear you’re a hero, saving your dad’s life and all,” I say gently, and just saying those words aloud makes the reality so much sharper. The tears flow over the edge of my eyelids and seep into the mask over my nose and mouth.  
  
“I wasn’t tryin’ to be a hero,” he says softly, a bit sheepish. “I just couldn’t help myself.”  
  
“Like you couldn’t help trying to save me?” I ask without rancor. A smile tips the corners of his mouth up. “You could have left me more clues,” I say, gently reprimanding.  
  
“I didn’t want you to come looking for us. I could tell that woman would kill you. I just couldn’t go through that again, you know, my mom—“  
  
“I know,” I interrupt. Brushing his hair back on his forehead with my gloved fingers, I say, “You need to rest now. I’ll harass you later for being so stinking noble.”  
  
His smile gets bigger and he says, “I’d laugh, but it hurts too much.”  
  
“You’re going to be all right,” I find myself saying though I have no idea if that’s true. I’ve seen people look worse than him and survive, but I’ve also seen people look better and die. And I’m afraid to hope.  
  
His head moves in a tiny nod. “I will. It’ll just take a while.” He takes a deep breath, and then asks rapidly, “Will you take care of my dad till I get out of here?”  
  
“Sure,” I answer immediately.  
  
“It won’t be hard, since you like him so much,” he says, and then he actually winks at me.  
  
Stunned that he could try to play matchmaker at a time like this, I lean closer and whisper, “I’ll make sure he’s all right—I won’t  _take care_  of him.”  
  
LJ’s eyes close but the smile remains on his face. “Sure you won’t,” he mumbles before dropping off to sleep.  



End file.
